


Take Care

by accidentallyonpurpose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft gets drunk, Post S4, Post series 4, Vomiting, just what i think happened after, not really a fix-it, s4 spoilers, which is johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9492830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: A post-season 4 fic that starts from the scene after they escape Sherrinford, when Eurus is being taken away. Chapter 1 will be from John and Sherlock's perspective, Chapter 2 will be from Greg and Mycroft's. Heed the tags. Here there be spoilers.





	1. John & Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

“Make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”  
“I will.”  
Sherlock watched Greg turn on his heel and stalk to his police car, where he knew Mycroft was waiting. Sherlock quietly slipped his hand into John’s, pulling his blanket tighter around him. John didn’t seem to register what Sherlock had done, taking subconscious comfort in the weight of a hand in his.  
“So… Did you want to gather Rosie tonight or pick her up tomorrow morning?”  
John thought for a moment. “Well, Mrs. H said she’d take her as long as we needed.”  
Sherlock nodded, correctly interpreting it as John’s way of asking for a night off.  
“We’ll go back to mine?” John asked.  
“Well we can’t very well go to Baker Street at the moment. It’s a little… blown up.” Sherlock smirked at John.  
“Yes alright, you great git, let’s go,” John said, leading Sherlock towards the street. “Get us a cab.”  
Sherlock easily flagged them a cab and gave John’s address when they got in. They rode in silence, Sherlock’s hand still wrapped around John’s. When they pulled up to the house, John paid and slid out of the cab, Sherlock following close enough behind that their hands didn’t unlink. They were both still wrapped in the blankets they had been given. John unlocked the door and they both stepped in, standing in the doorway. John pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s, pulling his blanket tighter around himself self-consciously.  
“I’ve, uhh, I’ve been sleeping in the guest bed. Since Mary, um, since Mary…” John petered out, nodding awkwardly.  
“Okay,” Sherlock said. “That’s fine. I can take the sofa tonight.”  
“No, I can take the sofa,” John insisted.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John, this is your house, you take the bed. I rarely sleep anyways, I doubt I’ll get any tonight.”  
John looked at him for a moment, already feeling the pull to his bed. “If you insist,” he relented after a moment.  
“I do,” Sherlock said. He put his hand on John’s shoulder, turning him so they were facing each other. “Go to bed, John. I know where the spare pillows and blankets are. I’ll be fine.”  
“Okay. Goodnight.” John placed his hand momentarily on Sherlock’s before pulling away and moving to the bedroom.  
Sherlock watched John leave, feeling conflicted. He was sure that John would have a nightmare tonight and he wanted to be there for him, but didn’t want to overstep his bounds. He knew John had forgiven him countless times and was afraid that one more infraction would cause him to push Sherlock away. He decided he would give John space and not push his luck. He was fortunate enough to have gotten away with holding John’s hand earlier, which he was sure only happened because John was still processing the events of Sherrinford and hadn’t fully noticed.  
Settling himself on the sofa, Sherlock sat with his legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin. He would go into his mind palace to start sorting through the events of the day, but would stay on the surface so that he would hear if John needed his help. 

Sherlock jerked awake a few hours later. Cursing, he rubbed his face roughly before stilling. He could hear a faint whimpering coming from the guest bedroom.  
Getting up, Sherlock crept to the door, which was closed. Slowly turning the handle, Sherlock cracked the door open and peered in. He was met with the sight of John on the bed, the sheets tangled around his legs at the end of the bed. His arms were thrown above his head and his face was twisted, grunts breaking through his gritted teeth.  
“John,” Sherlock called softly from the doorway. “John,” he called a little louder. He moved to the end of the bed. “John, wake up!” he called. “John, it’s me, Sherlock.”  
“Sherlock,” John mumbled, face contorting into a pained expression. “Sherlock, no!” Tears started coursing down his face.  
“John, it’s Sherlock, I’m okay. We’re at your house. We’re both safe. You’re having a nightmare. Please wake up.”  
John’s breathing picked up and he jerked awake, sitting up with a shout of “No!” A sob tore from his throat and he tried to swing his legs out of bed, getting caught up in the sheets.  
“John, it’s okay, just calm down,” Sherlock said, walking around the bed so that he was standing beside the bed. “Can I touch you?”  
John had frozen in his seated position, tears still coursing down his face. “No,” he mumbled. “Just… give me a moment.” He buried his face in his hands, scrubbing viciously. “I can’t- I can’t handle seeing you- seeing you-“ John hiccupped around a sob, face still buried in his hands.  
“John,” Sherlock murmured sadly, sitting on the side of the bed but not touching him. “Let me at least get you untangled from the sheets, okay?”  
John just nodded, sobs still wracking his body. Sherlock carefully reached down, sliding the sheets gently from John’s legs. He moved so that he was at the head of the bed, right beside John. “Come here, John,” Sherlock said, opening his arms. There was a moment of uncertainty before John collapsed forward and into Sherlock’s arms. A few tears escaped from Sherlock’s eyes and slid silently down his cheeks. Silently, Sherlock held John and rocked him as John’s hands slowly slid from his face to grip onto Sherlock’s shoulders. He balled Sherlock’s shirt in his fists as his sobs slowly petered out into uneven breathing.  
“You’re okay, we’re both okay,” Sherlock murmured into his ear. He ran his hand soothingly up and down John’s back.  
“Okay,” John said a while later, pulling away. “Sorry I woke you,” John said.  
“You didn’t,” Sherlock lied, quickly wiping the two tear tracks on his face.  
“Still.”  
Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that so they sat in silence. Sherlock glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table.  
“Tea?” he asked. They had a few hours before they could go to Baker Street to pick up Rosie.  
“Okay,” John said. He felt a bit like a broken record.  
“Come.” Sherlock said, taking John’s hand and leading him into the kitchen. He sat him at the table and moved to the kettle. “Food?” Sherlock asked him.  
“Not right now,” John answered, shaking his head. He couldn’t handle the thought of putting anything in his stomach at the moment. Sherlock nodded his agreement and finished making their teas, bringing them to the table and sitting across from John. He slid John’s tea towards him, reaching out with the same hand and capturing John’s hand in his.  
“What is this?” John asks, running his thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand.  
“Whatever you want it to be,” Sherlock said hesitantly. “Everything.” He paused and swallowed audibly. “Nothing.”  
“What do you want it to be?” John asked, looking into his tea.  
“Everything,” Sherlock answered immediately. “The same as before, but more.”  
“Like a relationship?”  
“If you’re willing.”  
“And if I’m not? You can’t always have it your way, Sherlock.”  
“I know. That’s why I’m leaving it up to you,” Sherlock responded. “Whatever you want it to be.”  
“And if I want it to be like it was before? Just like it was before?”  
Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s, and he looked down when he answered. “Then that’s what it is. John, I think you know by now that I will never let you go. No matter how much you push me away.”  
“Putting aside how unhealthy that sounds, wouldn’t you want to do what makes me happy? Even if that means never seeing me again?”  
“Is that what you want?” Sherlock’s voice came out rough.  
John sighed. “No, of course not Sherlock. You’re right, as always.” John didn’t sound particularly happy about it. “I want everything, too. But that means changing nappies in the middle of the night, giving me space when I need it and comforting me when I need it. It means sleepless nights of worrying and early mornings of fevers and colds and work. Are you really ready to sign up for all of that?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said without hesitation. “I signed up for that the minute I made my vow. Whatever you need, whenever you need, I will be here for you.”  
John looked at him skeptically but didn’t pull his hand away.  
“Okay then. Take this moment by moment, day by day?”  
“Sounds good to me.” 

They got to Baker Street just as Mrs. Hudson was waking up.  
“Oh boys!” she cried when she opened the door, still in her robe. “Rosie has missed you dearly, John,” she said as she opened her door wider, letting them in.  
“And I’ve missed her,” he replied with a tight smile. “How’s she been?”  
“A perfect angel. Slept through the night last night.” As if she could sense her father’s presence in the flat, a piercing wail broke through the room. “And there she is,” Mrs. Hudson said, turning towards the other room.  
“I’ll get her,” John stopped her and moved to the other room. Peering in, he saw Rosie’s travel cot set up in the corner of Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room. “Hello, Rosie,” John cooed, reaching into the cot and pulling her out. “I’ve missed you.” He pulled her close, burying his nose in her head and inhaling her baby scent. She fussed a little but calmed down in her father’s arms, flailing a small fist. “Yes, yes, I know,” he cooed softly. “Do you need a change?” He lifted her so that he could smell her nappy. “Yes, indeed.” He went back out into the kitchen. “Mrs. H, where’s her bag?”  
“Just on the table there,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table that Sherlock was sat at.  
“Sherlock, can you get her changing mat and a nappy out, please?” John asked.  
“Of course,” Sherlock dove into the nappy bag, eager to show John that he was serious about his commitment. He pulled out the mat and spread it out on the kitchen table, taking out a nappy and wipes, as well as cream.  
“Thanks,” John said with a small smile towards Sherlock.  
“So, do you boys have any plans?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
“What do you mean?” John asked as he laid Rosie out on the mat.  
“Well, are you going to be staying at your house, John? And what about Sherlock? He can’t very well stay in 221B at the moment.”  
“We hadn’t talked about it,” John said, shooting a look at Sherlock. “But I’d like to move back in 221B. We couldn’t very well leave you, could we Mrs. H?” John asked with a small smile. “We’ll stay at mine while we fix the flat upstairs, then I’ll probably sell it.”  
Sherlock was sitting and smiling as he watched John deftly change Rosie’s nappy, folding the soiled one and putting a new one on after wiping her and applying cream.  
“Oh boys,” she sighed, sitting at the table with them. “I’m just so happy you’re seeing sense.”  
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked, affronted.  
“You finally see how happy you make each other.”  
Sherlock sat and blinked for a moment, looking between John and Mrs. Hudson.  
“We do,” John said softly as he snapped up Rosie’s baby-gro and lifted her up. Rosie fussed in John’s arms. “Hungry, my love?”  
“Let me get her bottle,” Mrs. Hudson said, standing and moving to prepare a bottle.  
“Thanks,” John said, sitting at the kitchen table. John reached out with his free hand and cupped Sherlock’s face. “You okay?”  
“Of course,” Sherlock said, looking at John and squeezing his hand. “Can I feed her?”  
“Yeah,” John answered, handing Rosie over to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson returned with the bottle and handed it to Sherlock. Feeling a little out of his depth, Sherlock brandished the bottle and aimed it at Rosie. He put the nipple to her lips and was thankful when she latched on eagerly.  
“It’s not surgery, Sherlock, no need to look so scared,” John said with a smile. “Hold her head up a little more.” Sherlock adjusted accordingly. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she greedily sucked the bottle back, hands resting on either side of the bottle. John smiled at the sight of them completely enraptured in one another. When Rosie started pulling air, she popped the nipple out of her mouth and whined. Silently, Mrs. Hudson slid over the applesauce she had pulled out of the fridge.  
“You hold her, and I’ll feed her,” John said, intercepting the applesauce. Sherlock propped her up so that she was sitting in his lap, leaning against his front. John opened the applesauce and dug the spoon in, bringing it to Rosie’s lips. She opened and wrapped her lips around the spoon, leaving it clean in her wake. They sat like that until the whole container of applesauce was done and Rosie was sitting clapping her hands together, applesauce all over her face. John grabbed a wipe from the bag and wiped off her face.  
“Well, we’d best be off,” John said. “We’ll start looking into getting the flat fixed up today, Mrs. H.”  
“See that you do,” she said with no bite in her tone. “And keep me updated, mind.”  
“Of course,” John said. “Thank you, again, for looking after her.”  
“It’s my pleasure, of course,” she said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. John stood and motioned for Sherlock to bring Rosie with him. He grabbed the nappy bag and their coats and exited the building. Sherlock followed after giving Mrs. Hudson one last kiss on the cheek, Rosie balanced on one hip.  
“So what now?” Sherlock asked.  
“We go back to mine. And then we start rebuilding our home.” 

It was a few days later that found Sherlock and John sorting through the rubble at 221B, salvaging what they could and binning the rest. Then it was another week of meeting with contractors and having them traipsing around 221B, and then they were finally moving in for good, setting up Rosie’s room in Sherlock’s old room and trying to find enough space in one closet for both of their things. And then it was Sherlock handing Rosie off to John and grabbing the strap-on carrier so that they could take Rosie to her first crime scene and it was late nights and colds and spats and first steps and first times and heartache and love and it was perfect. They were finally home.


	2. Mycroft & Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg helps mycroft start to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, heed the tags!

“Make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.” Sherlock’s eyes shifted to his police car.   
“I will.”  
Greg spun on his heel, just missing Sherlock reaching out and taking John’s blanket-wrapped hand in his own. He stalked towards his police cruiser, but was stopped by Sally.   
“What now, Sir?”  
“Eurus will be taken care of, I’ve been told by higher ups. I’m going home, gonna take the next couple days off.” Greg found he was too worried to care about niceties. With a nod, Greg moved past Sally and got into his cruiser, looking over at the passenger seat where Mycroft sat, unresponsive.   
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching over and taking Mycroft’s hand. “Mycroft, can you hear me?”  
Mycroft’s eyes flicked over to Greg momentarily, glazed over with horror and unshed tears.   
“I’m going to take you back to mine,” Greg told him, “Okay?”  
“That’s not necessary,” Mycroft said hollowly.   
“Like Hell it’s not necessary,” Greg said softly. “It’s not up for debate.”  
“I’d prefer to be alone,” Mycroft whispered, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.   
“Well, tough shit. If you don’t want to talk to me you don’t have to, if you don’t want to LOOK at me you don’t have to, but damn if I’ll let you be on your own.” Greg was trying to reign in his anger, knowing that Mycroft had already been through enough. Mycroft stared blankly out the window of the car, watching London slip by. They rode the rest of the way in silence, Greg pulling up to his flat. He got out, walking to the passenger side and opening the door for Mycroft. “Come on, love,” Greg soothed, reaching in to help Mycroft out. He took Mycroft’s hand in his own, and was shocked when Mycroft ripped his hand out of Greg’s.   
“Don’t touch me,” he snarled. “Please.” He added shortly. He was trying to maintain his composure in front of Greg.   
“Okay.” Greg backed away a step, making sure Mycroft got out of the car before turning and unlocking the door to his building. He could feel Mycroft following him so he didn’t bother turning to make sure, just passed through the doors until he was finally in his flat. Mycroft closed the door behind him and stood there, looking unsure.   
“When did you last eat?” Greg asked quietly. Mycroft looked like a spooked animal, standing in front of the door but ready to bolt at any second.   
“Don’t know,” Mycroft responded.   
“Would you be willing to eat something now?”  
Mycroft thought of the deaths he had seen, and the nausea that he felt earlier came roiling back full force as he bit back a gag.   
“You’ve gone a bit green, so I’ll take that as a no,” Greg said. “Tea?”  
“Do you have anything stronger?”  
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Greg said quietly.  
“I would just like to go to sleep, then,” Mycroft said.   
“Okay, you can do that,” Greg said, nodding.  
“I don’t need your permission,” Mycroft snapped.  
“Nope, you don’t. Now, I’ll go grab a pair of your spare pajamas and we can get you settled. I can take the sofa if you want?”  
“No, I’ll take it,” Mycroft responded. “I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep, and wouldn’t want to keep you up.”   
“Don’t worry about that, Mycroft. You can sleep in the bed with me too, if you want?”  
“No, I don’t want to.”   
Greg tried not to let the abruptness hurt, and failed a little bit.   
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll go get your pajamas, then.” Without saying anything else, Greg turned and moved into the bedroom, quickly getting Mycroft’s pajamas from the drawer dedicated to his things. They had been together for a few months, and were at the stage where they were staying at one flat or the other most nights. He took the pajamas out to Mycroft, who hadn’t moved from his place in front of the door.   
“Here, love,” Greg said, holding out the pajamas. Mycroft took them, careful not to touch Greg as he did so.   
“Thank you.” He slipped past Greg, pajamas clutched tightly in his hands. He closed the bathroom door quietly behind him. Greg watched him go, feeling like a buoy on the wind-wracked water. He understood that Mycroft had been through a lot, but he felt the need to hug him and never let go, just as much as he knew that Mycroft would hate him for doing that. It was a disconcerting position to be in.   
Mycroft emerged a few minutes later to Greg still standing in the living room, seemingly lost in thought.  
“Gregory,” he said quietly.   
“Sorry, yes, I’m here. What is it, love?”   
“I’d like to go to sleep now.”   
“Okay.” Greg laid out the afghan that was draped on the back of the sofa. “You know where to find me. Please, come get me if you need anything, alright?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered, sitting on the sofa.   
“Okay, well, goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Gregory.”  
Greg ached to put his hand on Mycroft but resisted, going straight to his room. He got ready and climbed into bed, reaching across to the empty expanse of bed beside him. He tossed and turned for a while, ears constantly tuned to the sitting room, before falling into a fitful sleep.

Mycroft, meanwhile, was sitting on the sofa, waiting to hear Greg still. When he didn’t hear any more tossing and turning from the bedroom, Mycroft stood and went to the kitchen. He knew exactly where Greg kept the liquor and he took out the bottle of scotch he had gotten Greg for their one-month anniversary. He could replace it later. Moving back into the sitting room, Mycroft sat on the sofa and took a long sip from the bottle, reflecting on the hellish day he had had. As he re-watched the three innocent men fall to their death, he took another long pull from the bottle. In those two drinks, he had already consumed about a third of the bottle.   
Floating on the small buzz that started to work its way into his system, Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind for a few moments.   
He took another mouthful as he watched Sherlock point the gun first at him, and then at himself. Mycroft drank more. The buzz was starting to work its way out towards his fingers and toes. He felt the blackness creeping into the corners of his mind and relished the thought of it soon being blank.  
He saw blood and brain matter spattered against the wall. He lifted the bottle to his mouth, the nausea that he had recently escaped coming back full force and Mycroft was weak to prevent it. The contents of his stomach, which only consisted of expensive alcohol, started to come up and it was only by a miracle that Mycroft made it to the toilet before the burning liquid came back up, hitting the toilet bowl loudly. Mycroft tried to suppress the gagging and be as quiet as he could, but it was no use. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, which made him retch even more. The hand disappeared, and Mycroft thought he had been abandoned. A part of him figured he deserved it after the vile things he had done. When he finished retching, Mycroft leaned back. Tears had leaked out of his eyes while he was vomiting, and he scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping away any moisture there.   
“Here,” came a gentle murmur from beside him, and the bottle of scotch that he had been absently clutching was pried from his hand. A cool glass was pressed into his hand. “Take sips.”   
Mycroft brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.   
“You should drink more water,” Greg said gently.   
“I’m fine,” Mycroft snapped. He knew he was acting irrational in his anger but couldn’t seem to stop.   
“Yes, okay, but you should still drink more water.”   
Mycroft looked at him before another wave of nausea roiled over him. Leaning over, he retched bile a few moments more before his stomach settled again. He looked at Greg and all the fight seemed to go out of him. His face crumpled and his hands went lax, the glass dropping from his hand and spilling water down his pants. He leaned forward as he cried, hands limp on his thighs and head bent almost into the toilet bowl.   
“Oh Mycroft,” Greg breathed, taking the glass and placing it to the side. He put his hand on top of on of Mycroft’s and, when he wasn’t shaken off, wrapped the other arm around his back in a one-sided hug. Mycroft stiffened but didn’t move away. He cried for a few more moments before trying to gain control of his breathing.   
“I’m sorry Greg, this is awfully unbecoming.”  
“So what? You need this, Mycroft. Don’t stop until you’re ready to. You need to get all the sad out. That’s how you start to heal.” Greg took his hand from Mycroft’s and cupped his face instead. With his thumb, he wiped away one of tears still coursing down his cheek.   
“I don’t deserve your kindness,” Mycroft said, voice breaking around the last word as his mouth pulled downward.   
“Of course you do,” Greg said. “And you will always have it. Now, do we want to move this to a more comfortable place than the bathroom floor?”   
“Okay,” Mycroft said thickly.   
“Up we get,” Greg said, helping Mycroft to his feet and leading him towards the bedroom. “Are you okay with the bed?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft said, too emotionally tired to argue. When they got to the bed Greg pulled back the blankets, ushering Mycroft in and tucking the blanket over top of him. He got in on the other side, laying down and facing Mycroft. Mycroft was curled away from him, sniffling softly.   
“Mycroft, can you turn towards me please?” Greg asked softly, but with authority. Mycroft rolled over so that he was facing Greg, curled in the fetal positing with one hand tucked under his cheek. Greg reached for the other hand, cradling it in one of his own.   
“Better?” he asked. Mycroft shrugged non-committedly. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
“No.”  
“Do you want to go to sleep?”  
“I can’t,” came the watery reply.   
“That’s okay,” Greg murmured. “We can just lay here all night of that’s what you need.”   
Instead of making Mycroft feel better, that only seemed to make him feel worse. His face crumpled anew as he quietly started sobbing.   
“Oh, love,” Greg tutted softly, drawing Mycroft firmly to his chest. He felt the big part of his heart that was linked to Mycroft shrivel a little at his partner’s distress. “It’s okay,” he murmured mindlessly. “You’re okay.” He whispered platitudes into Mycroft’s ear as he seemed to sob every emotion out of his body. Greg was momentarily worried that Mycroft would make himself sick again with the amount that he was crying, but he assured himself that Mycroft was breathing and didn’t seem to be having ill effects other than a snotty nose and a little dehydration. He cried for what seemed like hours until he was absolutely exhausted. Then the words started.   
“There was the director of Sherrinford,” Mycroft said brokenly when he re-caught his breath. “And his wife. And three innocent men. All of whom died for no reason. And all at my hand, although not directly. No, I was too much of a coward for even that. Even when a man begged me, I couldn’t do it.” Mycroft laughed humorlessly. “And then of course, she made us turn on each other. And I tried to convince Sherlock to kill me.” Mycroft voice broke and his body shuddered as he relived the moment. “He pointed that gun right at me and at that moment, all I could think was that I didn’t get to say goodbye to you.” Mycroft met Greg’s eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “But I knew it had to be me. Sherlock could survive without me, but he would never be able to go on without John.” Mycroft sniffed quietly. “I would have done it, Gregory. Left you behind. You’re strong. You could survive. But not Sherlock. Not Sherlock.” Mycroft turned his face into his pillow, guilt washing over him again.   
“Okay, it’s okay, we’re okay, I don’t blame you, I forgive you, it’s all okay,” Greg repeated over and over, even thought he didn’t really understand what Mycroft was talking about. He held Mycroft tighter than he ever had, resting his head on top of Mycroft’s and letting the tears that had built up in his eyes run silently into his hair. Mycroft calmed quicker this time and pulled away.  
“You’re crying,” he said guiltily, trapping a tear on the edge of his finger.   
“Only because I’m sad you had to go through that, love. And I’m sad I almost lost you, but I’m also so glad that I can hold you here tonight. I’m so glad I didn’t lose you, Mycroft. You are so important to me. I love you.” It became a litany as Greg kissed every inch of Mycroft’s face, words interspersed between the kisses. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and let his kisses wash away some of the guilt and sadness that had been ravaging him all evening. His breathing slowed and he finally closed his eyes, seeing only darkness behind his lids. They both knew this wouldn’t be the end, not for a long time, but Mycroft was content in the knowledge that with time and the help of Greg, he could get through anything.


End file.
